


Can't Let Go

by highkingmariot



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergent, M/M, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 21:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17905631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highkingmariot/pseuds/highkingmariot
Summary: “Everything’s different now. We have real life to contend with.”“So that means we’re not allowed to love each other? Because it might be hard?” He paused, tilting his head slightly, as though he were seeing right through into Eliot’s soul, and when he continued his voice was so quiet that Eliot could almost convince himself that he hadn’t heard him. “Or because you’re afraid to let yourself be happy, and you know you could be happy with me.”--Set after the post-mosaic scene in 4x05. Eliot isn't used to sleeping alone anymore, so he goes in search of Quentin.





	Can't Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Magicians Rec Center's prompt for "Fear and Bravery".

 

Opening his eyes, Eliot stared up at the ceiling. He was barely able to make out the details in the darkness, but it was better than staring at the back of his eyelids like he had been doing for the last few hours. It was hard to tell, but he was fairly confident that he hadn’t managed to do more than toss and turn since he’d climbed into bed.

He felt… uneasy. And lonely. Fen’s breathing was quiet and even beside him, and he knew that he would be welcomed if he rolled over and curled up behind her, but she wasn’t the comfort that he needed tonight.

Even though he hadn’t actually spent any significant amount of time away from her, he had the memory of missing Margo. He knew that she wouldn’t complain if he crawled into bed with her, wrapping himself around her and solidifying themselves with each other in a way that they just couldn’t manage with anyone else. But she’d had a hell of a day, what with her child bride and then thinking that he had, you know, _died_ , so sure, she might want the comfort, but she probably also just wanted her own space for five minutes.

And besides, it might be something that he wanted, but it wasn’t the thing that he was craving.

Letting his breath out slowly, he let himself think about Quentin. How he’d just _gone_ for it, telling him how he thought they should be together, like it was that easy. He knew that he’d done the right thing, despite the sour taste it had left in his mouth, despite how hard it had been to see Quentin’s whole demeanour fall like that. Their lives had been pretty perfect – more perfect that he had any right to know – but there was no way that they’d work in real life. They had too much here, too many things pulling them apart. Eliot had too much responsibility to worry about what his heart wanted. And Quentin had Alice. Or whatever other woman caught his eye. He knew that he wasn't his first choice, not when he had the option to spend his life with whoever he wanted to. It had been fine when it was just the two of them, the two of them and Arielle, when they hadn't had their whole current lives and the people in them and the freedom to go out and be with whoever they wanted.

The mosaic was no longer holding them anywhere, or to anyone, and it would only be a matter of time before they drifted apart, or a pretty girl with pretty eyes _pulled_ them apart.

It had been the right thing to do. He couldn't bear the thought of ruining their friendship, one of the few he had that he genuinely gave a shit about. He wouldn't consider the possibility of losing that, of losing Quentin.

So he wasn't going to put them in a position where that was a option.

And he understood that, right? He knew that it was _because_ he loved him that he couldn't risk what they had, didn't he?

Maybe he should make sure he was okay.

He was out of the bed before he could second guess himself, grabbing his robe from where it lay over the back of a chair, pulling it over his shoulders and slipping out the door. The night was cool, the stone beneath his bare feet cold, and he stroke quickly through the castle. It must have been after midnight and the corridors were empty, the only light a small amount of moonlight through the windows and a few dimmed lanterns here and there, just enough light to guide the way. Quentin had been housed in the guard’s quarters on the first floor, in one of the individual rooms usually reserved for officers. They didn’t want to draw the fairies attention to him by putting him in his own room, but Eliot had quickly quashed Tick’s suggestion that he just bunk in with the rest of the guard. He might be hiding in his own castle, but he was still a king. Eliot had sent him down with some decent bedding in case the standard issue wasn’t up to scratch, and he hoped he was comfortable, at least.

Stopping outside Quentin’s room, he hesitated, his mouth twisting as he made himself face his uncertainty about whether he should go in. If he went back to his room, he’d fall asleep eventually. Just because he knew that he’d sleep better by Quentin’s side didn’t mean that he should. And things were going to be fine if he let them go, he knew they were.

But the way he'd looked at him earlier. Or not looked at him…

He opened the door.

The room was dark, darker than the corridors of the castle, the faint moonlight from the thin strip of window on the opposite wall barely throwing any light at all. He stayed for a moment by the door, hoping his eyes would adjust to the darkness, and eventually the dark shapes in the room turned into a cupboard, a chest, a bed. The room was silent and still, but he could just make out a dark lump on the bed. Not sure whether he was awake or not, Eliot closed the door quietly behind him and treaded quietly across the room, walking around the bed to the opposite side from where Quentin laid. Not wanting to startle him if he was asleep, he reached out and touched the blanket. “Q?”

Finally, Quentin’s body moved, and when he heard the sound of him forcefully letting out his breath he realised that Quentin had been holding it. “Fucking hell, Eliot,” he said, his voice muffled by the blanket but clearly exasperated. “I thought you were here to kill me.”

Eliot eyed the dark lump of his body in the darkness dubiously. “And you were just going to lie there?”

“I have a knife.” Quentin pushed back the blanket, and somehow the long knife in his hand managed to catch the small amount of light in the room. He dropped it on the floor on the opposite side of the bed from where Eliot stood. “After what you said about the fairies -”

“Yeah, that’s not their style,” he said dryly. The fairies were more likely to force you into a situation where you had to make a shitty deal for their benefit, than to knife you in the dark. He hesitated, second guessing himself now that he was in Quentin’s room, but he was already here. “I can’t sleep.”

Quentin was silent for a few seconds and Eliot felt every one of them, growing more and more uncomfortable knowing that Quentin was looking at him when he couldn’t make out any of his features in the dark, couldn’t decipher his expression, know what he was thinking. Eventually he pushed the blanket back more, a silent invitation – or, at least, accession – and Eliot didn’t wait for him to change his mind, shrugging out of his robe and slipping underneath the covers. Quentin had rolled over so that he was facing away from him, and Eliot stretched out his limbs for a moment before settling in, his lips twitching when he realised that he was using the bedding he’d sent down for him.

The ceiling in this room was, if anything, less exciting than his own. It was lower, without the fancy embellishments to count the patterns of. And the hollow feeling in his gut had gotten, if anything, worse. Once his eyes adjusted enough to the darkness of the room enough that he was confident that the ceiling held no mysteries for him to discover, he turned his head to look at Quentin. He could make out the tense line of his bare shoulders before they disappeared beneath the covers, his hair loose across the pillow. He looked far too stiff to be asleep.

He shouldn’t. He -

Rolling onto his side, he shifted across the bed until he could curl up behind Quentin, slipping an arm loosely over his waist. Quentin stiffened immediately. “Eliot,” he said softly, his tone making it sound like a warning.

It really fucking hurt.

“This is how I sleep,” he said nonchalantly, knowing full well that Quentin knew that, knowing full well that Quentin saw right through him.

Quentin was still for a few minutes, but when he finally relaxed, shifting slightly to get more comfortable, dropping his arm to lie against Eliot’s, he let himself relax, too. Piece by piece, he felt all of his anxiety and worry and stress drain away, chased away by familiarity and comfort. His arm tightened automatically and he leaned closer, melting against him, into him, revelling in the feeling of Quentin’s back, solid and sure against his chest. Ducking his head, he pressed his nose against his shoulder, against his neck, breathing him in, centring him. “El,” Quentin whispered, his voice thick in the darkness, and he couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop himself from pressing his lips against Quentin’s warm, soft skin.

And Quentin - was he _trembling?_ \- the sound that came from his throat, a quiet, longing sound, went straight through Eliot, filling up that pit in his stomach, so he parted his lips and kissed his shoulder again, spreading his fingers wide as he pressed his palm to his chest to hold him close.

That pit stretched wide again when Quentin jerked away, pulling out of his grip and practically scrambling across to the other end of the bed, twisting in the blankets and pulling them halfway across the bed with him in his haste to get away. From him. “No,” Quentin said, his voice strained, and Eliot closed his eyes, his hand flat on the bed, still warm from Quentin’s body. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

Looking across the bed, Eliot’s joking retort died on his lips when he saw Quentin crouched on the other end of the bed, his knees bent up close to his chest. Suddenly over this whole searching in the dark thing, he glanced across to the small table beside the bed and was relieved to see a candle there. Reaching across to light it, he turned back to Quentin and felt something twist in his gut when the small flame revealed the open hurt in Quentin’s eyes. He looked… vulnerable, curled up on the opposite side of the bed, wearing nothing but his underwear.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “Force of habit, you know?” he added, and immediately knew when Quentin practically flinched away from him that he’d said the wrong thing. He held his hands out beseechingly. “I honestly did just want to sleep.”

“Yeah, well I’m sorry, but…” His brow was furrowed, his mouth pressed into a hard line.  “This isn’t a good idea.”

He really didn’t want to go. He _really_ didn’t want to consider the idea that things might not be okay. “Come on,” he said lightly, tugging on the blanket in a half-hearted attempt to righten it. Quentin didn’t move. “I don’t want things to be weird. Let’s just go to sleep.”

Letting out a disbelieving huff, Quentin looked around the room, obviously distressed. “How is this not weird?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t know what you want from me, Eliot. You said you don’t want me, that -”

Eliot felt a pang of alarm. “That’s not what I said,” he said quickly, his voice low.

“- you don’t think this is worth trying.” Eliot closed his eyes, unable to take the hurt staring back at him. “But you still want to come and fucking - fucking _spoon_ me and kiss me, and -” Quentin stopped, and Eliot opened his eyes to see his closed, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “I can’t do it, El,” he said, sounding defeated. “If you don’t want me then fine, I can’t make you want me, but I’m not so desperate for any fucking crumb -”

“I never said you were.” Was that really how he thought he saw him?

Quentin took a deep breath and finally looked back up at him, and he looked haunted. Eliot felt sick. “I just need some time to feel shit about this, okay? I can summon a brave face in the light of day, but this -” he gestured between them “- this right now, in my _bed_ , is too much.”

Because of course it was. Of course Eliot had taken it too far, had done the wrong thing, had fucked it all up instead of making it better. How could Q possibly think that was something he wanted _more_ of? All he wanted to do was crawl across the bed, pull him into his arms, hold him until every bad thought he’d ever had dissolved into nothing. “I don’t want you to feel shit about this.”

“Yeah, well I do, okay?” he said, shifting in place, and Eliot realised that he’d moved further away from him on the bed. Pushing his hair back out of his face with both hands, Quentin looked up at the ceiling, and Eliot wondered if he found anything there that he hadn’t seen. Apparently not, from the beaten way he dropped his gaze to his once more. “I… I reached out, and you turned me down, and now I feel like shit. I told you I wanted to be with you, and you laughed at me, so – yeah,” he finished, tiredly.

“Q, come on,” he protested gently. “I didn't laugh.” He couldn’t have.

“You did,” he said. “Not with scorn, but like… like I was a child who didn't know what I was asking for. Who didn't know what I wanted.” He straightened his shoulders defensively and met his eye with determination. “I know what I want. I know what I'm asking for.”

Overwhelmed by Quentin’s conviction, just as strong as it had been earlier, Eliot lowered his eyes to the bed between them. How could he tell him that he cared too much for this to be something he could do? It was too much for him – and if it was too much for him now, how the hell would he manage in the thick of it? Why couldn’t he understand that? “It won't work.”

“Why not?” Quentin asked, his voice full of challenge.

That challenge hit a nerve inside him. “Because I'm a fuck up, okay? I will fuck this up. Or you'll get sick of my shit and run off with Alice or some other woman -”

Covering his face with his hands, Quentin groaned loudly. “For fucks sake, Eliot. I'm not going to leave you for Alice. I want _you_.”

Just like that. _I want you._ “No, you don’t.”

“Will you stop telling me how I feel?” he snapped. “I love you, okay? And you don’t have to want it, but can you stop pretending that we’re doomed before we even start because I know that we’re not, we have _proof_ that we’re not, and I don’t want to keep rehashing that with you if you’ve decided that it’s not worth giving a shot.”

Eliot swallowed hard, but the lump in this throat wouldn’t ease up. “I do want this,” he said, his voice thick. How could he think otherwise? “I want this so much it terrifies me. But… it was different there, Q. We were stuck with each other for fifty years, and we made it work.”

Quentin shook his head, rolling his eyes. “We didn’t make it work. We lived a beautiful life.”

_It_ had _been beautiful._ “Everything’s different now. We have real life to contend with.”

“So that means we’re not allowed to love each other? Because it might be hard?” He paused, tilting his head slightly, as though he were seeing right through into Eliot’s soul, and when he continued his voice was so quiet that Eliot could almost convince himself that he hadn’t heard him. “Or because you’re afraid to let yourself be happy, and you know you could be happy with me.”

Eliot just stared at him, all of his denials caught in his throat because he was right, and he was fucking terrified of that hope. Hope could destroy you. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to take that leap.

The silence stretched out between them, and eventually Quentin sighed quietly. “Look… it’s fine, I’m not going to keep harping on about it,” he said, rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and his forefinger. “Things will go back to normal, it’ll be fine, but you just can’t… bombard me in my bedroom.” His lips twitched in a poor attempt at a smile, but even that faded quickly. “I don't want to talk about it anymore. If you’re not going to... “ He paused, swallowed, then looked away. “I think you should go.”

Eliot didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave Quentin ever again. But if he stayed… if he _stayed_ , and he _broke them_...

Slowly, he climbed out of the bed, feeling sick at the way Quentin’s features tightened as he did so. _It’s better this way_ , he wanted to say, but the words died on his lips. He shouldn’t have come down here in the first place – he had memories, fifty years of them, of having basically no space from Quentin at all, and he hadn’t seriously considered that he might not want to share that with him anymore.

But that’s was he was doing though, too, wasn’t it?

Picking his robe up from the floor, he bundled it under his arm and walked toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. When he reached the door he stopped with his hand on the handle, unable to bring himself to open it. Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward to press his forehead against the wooden panel. He felt like he was tearing himself apart. “What if it ruins everything?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Quentin said, his voice quiet but firm, and Eliot wished he had even a fraction of his conviction.

He was confident that Quentin hadn’t thought through what would happen to them if they tried this and failed. “Have you met me? I have a tenancy of fucking everything up. I can't do that to you. I can't do that to us.”

He heard Quentin moving on the bed behind him. “I have met you,” he said softly, and despite everything, it sounded like he was _smiling_. “I know you better than anyone, El. I know how you stood by me for fifty years. I know how you were there for me when Arielle died, and how much you loved her. I know how tender, and patient, and kind you were with our son.” The thought of Teddy brought a burning sensation to the back of his throat and it was too much, he couldn't think on Teddy right now or else he was going to fall apart. (He was pretty sure he might fall apart anyway.) “I know you, Eliot. And I love you _because_ of that, not in spite of it.”

_I know you_. Eliot had used that earlier, to tell Quentin why they wouldn’t work, but all Quentin saw was why it _would._

He loved him so fucking much.

And he wanted to be brave.

Eliot took a deep breath, then another, and when he realised that nothing was going to calm the fear and nerves inside him he turned around anyway. Quentin had turned to sit on the edge of the bed, his legs tucked up underneath him, watching him, and his confusion was clear on his face as Eliot crossed the room in three long strides. Taking Quentin's face in his hands, he bent down to kiss him, pulling him up onto his knees, kissing him with all of the want and need and desperation that he'd been trying to smother since they'd realised this whole life between them. Quentin kissed him back automatically, his lips parting under his with ease and familiarity, his hands clutching at his waist and pulling him close but he wanted closer, he wanted everything.

Quentin’s hands gripped at Eliot’s wrists but didn’t pull his hands away. “Eliot,” he murmured against his lips. Eliot kissed him harder, twisting his fingers through his hair to keep him close. Sighing into him, Quentin parted his lips against his, kissing him back for a moment before he pulled back. “ _Eliot._ Please. I can’t - You can’t keep saying no and then -”

“I’m not saying no,” he said, his lips brushing Quentin’s as he spoke. He pulled back enough to see Quentin staring up at him, wide-eyed. “You’re right. I’m afraid. I’m fucking terrified. That I’m going to screw this up, or that I’m going to screw you up, or - or just that I don’t know how to be happy. But you’re right. I know how to be happy with you.” Hope filled him, a stronger feeling than he knew how to handle. And what if it all came crashing down, what if it all went to shit, but what if it didn’t? “Quentin,” he said, smoothing his thumbs over his cheeks, smiling down at him hesitantly. “We’re both a bit fucked up, okay? But we’ll figure it out. I want to try and figure it -”

He was cut off as Quentin surged upwards, his hands curling around Eliot’s neck as he kissed him firmly and Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, letting himself fully realise this. And it felt good, it felt perfect, and how had he been about to say no to this? He hated himself for even thinking it, with Quentin clinging at him so desperately, pulling him back onto the bed and kissing him like he was trying to crawl into him, how could he be so fucking stupid as to try and push this away? He pressed Quentin into the bed, his hands in his hair, down his bare shoulders, gripping briefly at his hip. Reaching lower, he hooked his hand under his knee and lifted it so he could settle between his legs, and Quentin parted them for him easily, just like they'd done this a million times.

He could feel how much Quentin wanted him, pressed against his own hardness, and he swallowed Quentin’s moan when he grinded down on him through their underwear. He’d have done anything for magic right then, to vanish their underwear, to summon some lube. With difficulty, he forced himself to pull back, tearing off his underwear before removing Quentin’s. Kneeling between his legs, he’d intended to lie down along him once more, to get as close as he possibly could, but he hesitated as he looked down at Quentin, with his heaving chest, his wanting eyes, his perfectly arching cock, and he couldn’t help himself.

Shifting further down the bed, he bent his head and took it into his mouth, his eyes falling shut at the feeling of his cock, smooth against his tongue. Quentin's breath left him in a short, sharp exhale, his body tensing, and Eliot’s hand flattened against his hip to hold him still, the thumb and forefinger of his other wrapped lightly around the base of his cock to keep him steady as he took him in deeper. Fingers touched at the top of his head, then reached lower to scratch against his scalp, his fingers twisting in his hair. Pulling back, he licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock as he went. He pressed a tender kiss to his frenulum before teasing it with his tongue, and the sound Quentin made in response only made him impossibly harder. Before he could reach down to take hold of himself, Quentin’s free hand was pulling at his, pulling it from his hip and twining their fingers together, massaging his knuckles gently, and he felt a strong rush of affection flood through him.

Christ, he was done for. He was so, so done for.

He tried to glance up at him, but just as he did Quentin thrust up into his mouth and his eyes slid closed again instead, focusing on the stutter of Quentin’s hips as he chased his own pleasure. “Oh, fuck,” Quentin groaned, then he was pulling on his hand, tugging on his hair. “El, here,” he said, his voice thick. “Please.”

He seriously considered not stopping, more than happy with the idea of sucking him until he came in his mouth, but after a moment he pulled back. Instead of climbing up his body, though, he untangled his hand from Quentin’s and put both of them on his thighs, pushing his legs back, and Quentin gasped quietly as Eliot’s breath hit his sensitive skin before he teased his tongue around his hole.  “Oh my god,” he moaned, his legs tensing, and Eliot licked over him again, slightly firmer this time, flickering his tongue over him again and again until he was writhing beneath him. Closing his lips over him, he pressed harder with his tongue, slowly working his way inside him as he started to relax. The anticipation of burying himself deeply inside of him, of that tight heat clenching around him, made him moan, and he watched in delight when Quentin’s cock jumped in response.

Pulling back, he kissed his way up over his perineum, over his balls, the base of his cock. He moved up Quentin’s body, and was kneeling over him when Quentin’s hand on his chest stopped him. “I have lube,” he said breathlessly. “In the chest by the wall.”

“Why do you have lube?” he asked, huffing a laugh. “You've been in this room five minutes.”

Quentin blinked up at him, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth “Just in case,” he said, shrugging awkwardly.

_…Just in case he’d come for him._ The realisation hit him like a punch in the gut, and it quickly turned into self-disgust. Quentin had been hoping he would come, but if his discomfort was anything to go by, he hadn’t been sure, and Eliot hated himself for that. “I’m so sorry, Q.”

“It's okay,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth lifting into almost a smile. “Just… just get up here.”

How it could be even a little bit okay blew Eliot’s mind. He didn’t deserve Quentin, not by far. Squeezing his calf, he climbed off of the bed and opened the wooden chest that Quentin had indicated. Quentin’s Earth clothes were tucked next to the guard’s uniform that he’d been given earlier, and nestled on top of the pile was a small glass jar. Twisting off the lid, he smirked when he saw the familiar contents – it was a mixture Margo had concocted, and he wondered whether he’d snuck it from her room or whether he’d asked her for it. He couldn’t decide which image he liked more.

Returning to the bed, he climbed onto the mattress, kneeling between Quentin’s legs once more, smoothing one hand up his thigh, drinking in the sight of him spread out before him. When he reached his eyes he found him watching him with an odd quirk to his lips. “Hey,” he said softly, and yes, he remembered this.

Scooping out some of the lube onto his fingers, he rubbed them together before he reached down and pressed his middle finger against his opening. When Quentin took the jar from his hand he leaned over him, supporting himself with his elbow beside Quentin’s shoulder as his other hand worked him open. Slick fingers grasped his cock and he let his forehead fall against his chest as Quentin started to stroke him, the sensation of a familiar touch on him, _finally_ , spiking through his blood like electricity.

Quentin’s grip on him faltered when he curled his fingers inside of him, and Eliot couldn’t wait anymore. Kissing him hungrily, he pushed his hands away, guiding his legs further apart, and when he sank into him it felt like relief.

Their bodies were new to this, but their minds were not. He knew just how to move to make Quentin cry out, over and over until his words dissolved into one long, desperate moan. Quentin knew just the right place to kiss to make a shudder roll through his whole body. They clung close to each other, their bodies pressed together, their mouths only parting to gasp for breath or to press hot kisses to neck and jaw and shoulder. Eliot moved slowly, thrusting deep into him every time, trying to draw this out as much as he could. He couldn’t – he couldn’t – he was too needy for him, too desperate, every stroke feeling like it was too much, like he couldn’t last, but Quentin's moans told him that he was right there with him.

His body was flush against Quentin’s, but he shifted some of his weight to one elbow so he could reach down and take Quentin’s cock in his hand, stroking his thumb along the slit and down over his frenulum, knowing how much it would drive him crazy, _knowing, knowing, knowing._ Knowing he wanted to see him fall apart like this every day. Life would be fine, just how it was before, it would be _fine,_ but he wanted more than fine, he wanted – everything.

Crashing his lips back against Quentin's, he tried to pour as much of that as he could into that kiss, all of his apology and his regret and his hope, his whole fucking heart. Quentin kissed him back, hot and messy, and when Quentin pulled away to breathe, to groan, Eliot buried his face against his neck. “Oh – El –“ Quentin gasped, his whole body starting to tremble, and then he was arching up underneath him, clenching tight around him as his hot release spilled over Eliot’s hand and onto his stomach. Letting go of his cock, Eliot grabbed his hip instead, his thrusts becoming faster and more erratic, once, twice more until his hips jerked forward, burying himself deep inside him as pleasure shot through him, his body stiffening as he came.

All at once, the tension seeped out of him, and he sank down against Quentin, nosing against his neck. Quentin’s hand rubbed lightly at his back, slowly up and down as he tried to catch his breath, and he didn’t want to move from this spot, didn’t ever want to move from this spot. How could he have thought this would feel like anything other than the safest place he'd ever been? He knew that in the cold light of day his worries and his fears would return to bite at him, but he wouldn't be facing them alone.

Quentin's lips were soft against the side of his face, and he lifted his head to kiss his lips, slowly, tenderly. “I love you,” he said, and the obvious relief in Quentin’s eyes hurt him as much as healed him. How could he be so fucking stupid? “I love you, Q,” he said again, needing him to hear it, needing him to know.

Quentin’s answering smile was full of wonder. “I love you, too.”

Reluctantly, Eliot pulled out, sinking onto the bed beside Quentin, feeling blissful and boneless. He reached out to him, still craving the feel of his skin against his, and frowned when he realised Quentin had slipped from the bed but relaxed when he saw he was only cleaning himself up.

Realising that he was lying on top of the crumpled blankets, Eliot straightened them in time for Quentin to slip underneath them when he returned to the bed, and after he extinguished the candle he settled against Eliot immediately. He curled around him, his head on his shoulder, his hand on his chest and one leg thrown over his, and Eliot wrapped his arms around his shoulders, turning his body slightly toward him to keep him as close as possible. His new memories told him that they usually spooned more than anything else, just like when he’d first crept into Quentin’s bed, but he didn’t question it – he needed this, too.

Closing his eyes, he smiled against Quentin’s hair, knowing he’d be asleep in minutes, now that he’d made things right.

Everything else… they’d figure it out. Together.


End file.
